From the eeriness of an emerald forest                                                                                                                              To the tranquility of a silent village,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             There live a blind man                                                                                                                                    A bizarre man he was                                                                                                       Along came another man,                                                                                                  Who would count the stars,                                                                                              Would feel the trees                                                                                                           And would sit in his little chamber                                                                                   Whilst the blind man would feed the birds                                                                        Many days would pass                                                                                                         He would create several volumes                                                                                         He would fill several jars                                                                                                And would write in his little chamber                                                                         Whilst the blind man would mingle with children                                                               A couple years further                                                                                                     He would publish his works                                                                                             He would host fine dinners                                                                                            And would boast about his little chamber                                                                    Whilst the blind man would polish  his only shoes                                                          Soon the time came                                                                                                    Where he would grasp his last breath                                                                               He would make his final gesture                                                                                    And pass away in his little chamber                                                                             Whilst the blind man would cry incessantly                                                            Centuries would pass                                                                                                       His ideas would promote change                                                                                     His works would foster machinery                                                                                 And a museum would form of his little chamber                                                          Whilst the blind man would become a mere memory                                                         A mystery the blind man was                                                                                           For he never asked                                                                                                        And he never sought                                                                                                          But would relentlessly saunter in happiness                                                               Whilst the novel man would franticly search in grief